A Very Fine Paladin
by DarkV
Summary: A young paladin attempts to juggle a life of battling Evil and a life of leisure at a bar. He fails miserably and violently.


**A Very Fine Paladin**

"You aren't!"   
  
"I _am_," the young man insisted to the older man sitting across the table from him in the bar. "I am indeed a paladin!"   
  
"I think you've just had a few too many glasses of ale," the grizzled, middle-aged man responded.   
  
The young paladin sighed. The two had been going back and forth like this for at least an hour.   
  
"I'm telling you, I _did_ fight against the Lord of Terror himself, Diablo. Where do you think I got this scar?"   
  
"Bah! I have plenty of scars. That doesn't mean I've been off fighting evil."   
  
"What else would a paladin fight?"   
  
The man sat back and thought about this for a while. He was clearly becoming more and more drunk by the minute. Still, he was persistently and irritatingly stubborn in dealing with this stranger. The paladin sighed, and took another sip of his drink. Finally, the other man spoke.   
  
"Why, nothing, I suppose."   
  
"Well there you go," the paladin said conclusively, anxious to end this conversation. Several more minutes passed. Several more glasses filled the table. The barkeep was getting worried. The paladin was just about to get up and leave when the other man spoke again.   
  
"Wait a minute!" the man said as his head shot up. The paladin visibly winced. He had been very close to escape. "That doesn't prove you're a paladin!"   
  
Now the paladin sat back and thought for a while. By this time a waitress had come by, beginning to clear the glasses from the table by the armful. On her third trip back he perked up, slapped one hand down on the table, held a finger up in epiphany, and said, "Ah hah!" The waitress and the drunk snapped to attention. The paladin reached up to his neck, and pulled a necklace over his head. He held it out for the drunk to see.   
  
"An amulet of greed," the paladin said simply. "It's an enchanted item that I don't think you'll find in any old market." His audience looked at him quizzically. "Watch," he said.   
  
He put the amulet back on, and looked at the floor. He then lifted up his foot for a moment, then brought it down with a furious stomp. "A rat," he explained. He reached down under the table, and then came back up holding a gold coin. "You see?"   
  
The waitress laughed, both delighted and amazed at the display. Yet still the drunk was not convinced. "Bah! Parlor magic. And why the devil is a paladin having anything to do with _greed_?"   
  
"It's not--," the paladin broke off and sighed. His will faltered for only an instant before he came up with an answer. "I need a large supply of gold, you see, so that I can have my equipment repaired _after fighting evil_. Like," he paused for a moment as he reached down to his belt to pick up his weapon, "_this_." He held a war hammer out in front of him with both hands. "It's called the Doom Bane."   
  
The drunk's gaze drifted from the paladin's face down to the war hammer, and then back up to the paladin again. "Sure," he said, "and I have a magic shovel back home that I'll sell for only 20,000 gold."   
  
The waitress was still standing by the table, watching the debate rage. By this time the paladin had noticed she was still there. He seized her forearms and looked her in the face.   
  
"Look into my eyes. Can you not see the fires of righteousness and glory, the true mark of the paladin, burning within them?"   
  
The waitress tilted her head, raised an eyebrow, and responded, "You trying to sweep me off my feet?" The paladin sighed, let go of her arms, and sunk back into his chair.   
  
"Ahh, don't feel bad," the drunk said. "Plenty of women have turned me down. But..." He paused. "It might help if you didn't lie so much." At this the paladin leaned forward, menacingly.   
  
"Warriors of the Light...do _not_..._lie_."   
  
The drunk rolled his eyes, and drained another glass.   
  
"You old fool..." the paladin grumbled, while shaking his head.   
  
The glass came down on the table with a slam, and the drunk proclaimed, "That's an insult!" He stood shakily, then swaggered and staggered around the table. The paladin rose to his feet and took a few steps back.   
  
"Now wait a minute, old man. You don't want to fight me."   
  
"I think _someone_ has to teach you a little respect!" the drunk slurred.   
  
The drunk raised his fist, stumbled forward, and was about to land a mighty blow across the paladin's face.   
  
"Wait, I have auras! I have thorn--" but the paladin's warning came too late.   
  
The drunk's fist caught the paladin on cheek, continued across to his nose, and continued soaring through the air until it splattered against the far wall of the building. There was a sudden and strange twang sound, and the rest of his body exploded in a dazzling and shocking display of gore. His head shot off and landed on the bar, where it cracked open and leaked brain matter over the surface. A fountain of blood gushed out of his neck, spraying the ceiling, the paladin, and the nearby waitress with untold volumes, while the shattered torso tumbled to the floor. His arms slipped out of their sockets and landed next to the body in the growing pond of blood, and his legs slid up through his hips, falling in opposite directions. His intestines slowly oozed out through the new holes, landing with a sickening plop among the rest of the mess.   
  
A silence fell over the bar for a moment, right before the waitress shrieked.   
  
"Er," the paladin started, as a mob began to form. "Thank the Heavens for defensive auras. Vigor!" And with that, the paladin seemed to light up with an inner glow; he broke through the wall of the bar, and fled with demonic speed into the night. 


End file.
